A Silent Death by Peter May (top books to read .txt) 📗

at the house he had told her that she should sleep, and taken her to the bedroom. For a long time she had stood in the silent darkness of her inner prison trying to determine whether or not he had left the room. She did not want to undress with the thought that he was standing watching her every move. So in the end she had simply lain down on the bed fully dressed.

But thoughts of Sergio had kept sleep at bay. Remembering every word of their conversation, his touch, his scent. Then his return, their interchange cut short by the deep vibration of something heavy landing at her feet. Poor, poor Sergio. What had that monster done to him?

It is the first thing on her mind when she wakes, and the cold fingers of fear close around her heart as the full recollection of the previous day’s events flood back.

She sits upright, breathing hard, trying to hold herself still. Is there anyone in the room? She cannot tell. Slowly she slips off the bed and makes her way to the small en-suite bathroom, where she sits on the pan to relieve herself, then splashes her face with cold water in the sink. She does not have the heart even to brush her teeth, and feels her way to the door, and out into the sitting room.

Immediately she smells fresh coffee and hot churros. A hand on her arm startles her, and she recognizes Cleland’s earthy scent. He guides her quickly but gently towards her computer and eases her into her seat. She feels for and finds the small vibrating disk that she pins immediately to her blouse. Almost at once she feels it vibrate against her skin.

Fingers on her screen decipher his message.

– Good morning, Ana. I hope you like churros. You’ll find a plate of them and some coffee on the table in front of you.

‘I’m not hungry,’ is her instinctive response. Even although she is.

– Well, that’s a pity. If you don’t want them I might have to eat them myself. I love churros, don’t you?

No response.

– I’ve eaten far too many of them since I’ve been in Spain. Much better than porridge! But fattening, don’t you think? So much here is fried. A bit like Scotland. I’ve put on too much weight. He paused. Angela, on the other hand, could eat anything and never put on an ounce. Oh, I’m sorry, imperial measures. What would you say? A gram?

Ana sits in silence, fingers dancing across the screen to read his rambling. None of it, she thinks, requires a response.

– Of course, there’s no danger of Angela ever putting on weight now, is there?

‘Where’s Sergio?’ She isn’t going to play his game, and can almost hear him sighing in the pause before his reply.

– He’s gone.

‘What did you do to him.’

– I didn’t do anything. Pause. Well, I did. I hit him over the head. I’m sorry. He’s going to have a bad headache this morning, but he’s probably more upset by what I told him.

‘What did you tell him?’

– That you didn’t want him to come back. Ever.

She knows he is lying. How could he possibly have explained to Sergio why he had struck him? And then just let him go. She is consumed by fear for her teenage amour. But knows she has to keep Cleland talking. About anything. The more she can build a rapport with him the less likely he is to hurt her. She hopes.

‘Why are you doing this?’

– Because your niece killed the woman I was going to marry. The woman who was carrying my child.

This is news to Ana. Did Cristina know that Cleland’s woman was pregnant? But she wants to steer him away from that. ‘No, I mean, everything you do, everything you are. After Cristina told me about you, I searched the internet for more information. There is plenty out there about you. Newspaper articles. Police bulletins. Even a page in Wikipedia.

– Really? I didn’t know that.

She somehow detects pleasure in this response and decides to play on his ego. ‘I suppose you’re a little bit famous in your own way.’

– Just a little bit?

Which only confirms for Ana that Cleland is more than just a little bit self-obsessed. Image is a skin people wear to hide their real selves. And Cleland is clearly concerned with his. Even to the point of lying to himself about who was actually responsible for Angela’s death. Because, after all, how could he live with himself if he were to admit responsibility for killing the mother of his child, along with the child itself? It wouldn’t fit with his own carefully cultivated self-image. Invincible dealer in drugs, respected and feared in his own circles, always one step ahead of the police. Living the life of a wealthy retiree on the Costa del Sol, right under the noses of the authorities. She says, ‘Quite a lot, I suppose.’ Then hesitates. ‘What I don’t understand is why.’

– Why?

‘Your parents were wealthy.’

– So?

‘They sent you to the best schools, paid your way through Oxford. You never wanted for anything.’

– Nothing material, no.

‘So what possible reason could you have for turning to crime?’

There is a very long pause.

– That’s a good question, Ana. And I don’t pretend there’s any easy answer.

His subsequent response is peppered with long pauses as he reflects, perhaps for the first time, on why he has taken this particular route through life.

– It all sounds very grand, doesn’t it? Wealthy parents, private schools, an Oxford education. The reality was something else. Parents who never wanted me in the first place. A mother and father who couldn’t wait to shuffle off responsibility to nannies and schoolmasters. I was just an inconvenience. We lived in Edinburgh, for God’s sake, and yet they had me board at Fettes, less than a mile from the family home. Lavished with everything money could buy. Except for love. Which, of course, you can’t buy, as The Beatles so